


Spring, Eternal

by xocean



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Closure, F/M, Gen, I Don't Even Know, Post - A Game of Thrones, Post-Canon Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-19 16:01:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18973273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xocean/pseuds/xocean
Summary: He goes back a year later and finds her in her solar.“Jon,” she breathes, eyes wide, and gods, it feels like home.





	Spring, Eternal

**Author's Note:**

> Post 8x06, sort of canon compliant. Giving Jon and Sansa (and myself) some closure because they didn't get any in the show.

He goes back a year later and finds her in her solar. Fist balled up, he knocks. 

 

“Come in,” she says, just like the way she did a year ago, and this time when he walks in, she drops her papers and gets to her feet. 

 

“Jon,” she breathes, eyes wide, and gods, it feels like home. 

 

She doesn’t wear the crown, he sees, he knows that she has one. There is a song he has heard of her, when he and Tormund had stopped at an inn for a night. The bard had sung of her coronation, how _two direwolves meet at the crown of her head . . ._ _fierce is our wolf queen . . ._

 

She’s regal, standing tall. Her face has matured beautifully. 

 

And her anger comes a second later but it is icy; it engulfs him even as she orders for rooms to be prepped, and a hot meal and wine to be served immediately. He tries to approach her.

 

“Sansa,” he says to her back as she delivers more orders to the maid, “Sansa, I -”

 

“Must be tired.” She cuts him off with a turn on her heel, and when her eyes meets his, they are guarded. “You must rest.” Turning her head, she smiles at Tormund. “You’ll be very comfortable here. It’s so nice to see you again.” 

 

It’s miles warmer a welcome than the one she gives him, and it stings. But he feels it is a long time coming, so he gives her grey sleeve one last doleful stare, and then follows Tormund out.

 

“Sorry, chap.” Tormund says, although the grin he is wearing is not sorry at all. 

 

He shrugs, declines to follow the maid to a room, and goes to wander the castle, the familiar grounds. He’s surprised that people recognise him. They stop what they’re doing and they stare, and some people he recognizes instantly come over, faces joyful and almost reverent. No one says anything about the punishment meted out by King Bran. They just welcome him home. 

 

He goes to the godswood after a while, after the attention becomes overwhelming, and the leaves are redder than ever, the pond still and calm. It is spring again, and everything is lushly green. The air is minutely warmer, and in the quiet of the godswood he can hear birds chirping. Home, he thinks, he’s been everywhere in the world and only this place makes him feel warm inside. 

 

He walks around the grounds, brushing a horse’s mane as he passes by, giving a slight smile to the children learning how to saddle one. At the courtyard, he sees arrow boards, looking well worn out, even though no one is practicing at the moment. A low, swooping feeling takes over him, and he looks up and feels like Ned and Catelyn Stark could have been standing just there, moments ago. 

 

She throws a feast that night, and more people than ever cram into the Great Hall. People dance, sing, and the biggest roar of cheers go up when Sansa stands next to him, beaming, and says, “Jon Snow has come home.” 

 

She turns to him when the crowd are consumed with food and wine and says, “You’ll stay long?”

 

And he can’t feel anything else over the warmth he felt from the candlelight, from his people singing songs he’d heard as a child, but especially from Sansa who, angry as she must be at him, is unable to hide the eagerness in her voice.

 

“I don’t know,” he tells her honestly. “Can we talk now?”

 

She purses her lips. “We’ve prepared all this food for you…”

 

“Which I couldn’t ever find delicious as long as you’re mad at me.”

 

Sansa shakes her head ruefully, then nods. “Very well.”

 

They pass by Tormund, who has a circle of people surrounding him, listening to his outlandish, yet often true tales, as they leave the hall. 

 

“Go on, then.” Jon says, once he shuts and bolts the door. “Get it on with.”

 

She raises a brow at him. 

 

“I’ve been horrible. Awful.” Jon urges her, “You wrote so many letters -”

 

“I did,” Sansa says quietly.

 

“And I never wrote back once.”

 

“Not for a whole year.”

 

“A whole year,” Jon agrees heavily. 

 

“Arya writes, every now and then.” Sansa says mildly. 

 

“You’re angry. I deserve it.”

 

She moves away from the fire, coming closer to him, and takes both his hand in hers. “No, Jon.” Her voice is gentle, and there’s something infinitely soft in her eyes. “I was worried. Never angry. But now I am so, so happy to see you.”

 

He swallows and tries to find the words to explain. A beat passes by, and she says, inexplicably, “I hope you found the peace you deserve.”

 

He stumbles into her arms, holding her tightly, eyes closed to pin back the tears that threaten to fall. 

 

“Gods, I’ve missed you,” he says.

 

“So did I.” Sansa’s voice is thick, and he knows she hasn’t held her tears back. “So did I.”

 

“I’m sorry. I -” He pulls back, wanting to tell it to her face, it’s the least she deserves. “I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know who I was. I wanted to write you back, and I wanted to come see you, but I - I -”

 

“I know,” Sansa soothes him. “I know.” 

 

“I’m sorry, Sansa.”

 

“There’s nothing to forgive.” Her gaze turns soft, pleading. “I’ve done more harm to you than you could ever do to me.” He shakes his head, but she continues. “I took the woman you loved away from you. Nothing I can do will help that.”

 

Jon feels the sting, that familiar little stab in his heart he has felt ever since he killed his own Queen. He has spent a year running headfirst into this pain, for it is what he deserves for what he did to her. He has embraced it thoroughly, so deeply that it almost doesn’t hurt anymore. It is almost cathartic. This is the price he pays for the safety of the world, of the people he loves. He has made peace with it. 

 

Tears stream down Sansa’s face, and he reaches out. 

 

“It was never going to end well,” he tells her softly. “She was my aunt, after all.”

 

“I can never forgive myself,” she whispers, and Jon can tell that this is true. Sansa, for her grey, queenly dress and soft red hair, pinned regally away from her face, this woman, is almost childlike now. Her eyes shine, like she’s seeing something he isn’t. “I wish with all my heart that it didn’t have to be you.”

 

He can’t help but smile. “Here we are,” he says, “One and a half Starks who can’t forgive themselves.”

 

Sansa looks at him, and a small smile lifts her lips. “It’s a better place to be than where we’ve been before.”

 

He agrees with her. The wars are over, the politicking is done far, far away from them. Here, they can finally breathe. 

 

“You’re my family.”

 

“Always.”

 

He takes her hand and they return to the hall. 

 

The merriment has somehow gotten louder, more cheerful. Tormund is engaged in a wine drinking contest. Amused, Jon stops to watch. Sansa slips into her chair at the great table, greeting the Lords who rise to their feet, motioning for them to continue. A Maester approaches as she picks up her fork, and she glances around - finds Jon, meets his eyes - then returns to her conversation. 

 

Tormund sidles up to him, a little drunk but steady nonetheless. 

 

“You’re not leaving, are you?”

 

Jon looks at his friend. “I don’t think so. No.”

 

Tormund shrugs. “Always knew it. You are happy enough with us, but there’s no place like home, eh?” Tormund glances away, at Sansa, then back at him. 

 

“I will come visit.” Jon clasps his shoulder.

 

“No,  _ I  _ will come visit, my boy,” Tormund roars with laughter. “Where else will I be treated like a king?” He turns and raises his mug; the people at the table cheer and pound the table. “To Winterfell!”

 

A hundred mugs rise. 


End file.
